


Painted Blind

by CuddlesandChocolateCake



Series: To Deceive a Deceiver [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Fluff, Mor being an excellent cousin, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, bonus content!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 12:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CuddlesandChocolateCake/pseuds/CuddlesandChocolateCake
Summary: Or, Chapter 1 of To Deceive a Deceiver, from Rhys's POV





	Painted Blind

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, here's the bonus content I promised! Happy 1st Birthday to my child, To Deceive a Deceiver, and thank you to everyone who's been reading and kudos-ing and commenting. You're all amazing. I hope you enjoy this little one-shot, and let me know what you think! Happy reading :)

1.

At a dusk hour in a snow-shrouded plaza, a man walks, frozen, through familiar streets. The sky is awash in hazy hues of pink and orange as the sun sinks beneath the horizon, night nipping greedily at day’s heels. Winter is as harsh as ever, and Rhysand shivers as a gust of bitter wind cuts through his sweater; it was perfectly comfortable for the chilly airplane he just stepped off of, but it’s not nearly thick enough to protect him from the ruthlessness of early winter in the city. Not for the first time that evening, he wishes he’d had the foresight to bring a coat with him on the flight. He had forgotten how cold Prythian got when the snow began to fall.

Though the path he follows is known to him, many of the shops lining the street are not. It’s been some time since he lived here, after all, and the city has grown and changed as much as he has. Maybe even more. It’s a shame, then, that he neglected warmer clothing, because all he wanted, when he stepped off the plane not an hour ago, was to see the city, to revisit his old haunts and check out some of the new developments. He had his suitcases taken right to Mor’s place for that exact reason. That nostalgia-fuelled desire to re-explore his childhood refuge has been considerably tempered now that he doesn’t even have coat pockets to stuff his icy hands into.

He blows warm air into his bare hands, enveloping them in a cloud of white that does little in the way of warming him up. Though that eagerness to meander aimlessly through the plaza until Mor comes to pick him up still exists, he’s having trouble ignoring the fact that he’s colder than he’s been in a very long time, and cruelly tired. Mostly, he just wants to get inside, to find something warm to drink and allow himself to thaw.

A brisk, insistent wind sets his teeth chattering, sending snow flying into his face and making his eyes water. Momentarily blinded, he walks headlong into a nearby streetlamp. He curses, rubbing the sore spot on his head, and finally gives up, changing his trajectory in search of the nearest café. After a good night’s sleep and food that isn’t courtesy of Prythian Air, he’ll come back and do some proper exploring, he decides.

Leaning against the ice-covered streetlamp, Rhys gazes around the plaza, tucking his hands under his arms while he looks for a place to take refuge. He can’t see much through the thick snowfall, just shadows and the muted light from nearby buildings.

The wind picks up again, carrying with it the faint scent of chocolate and spices, and without looking where he’s going, Rhysand rushes towards the source of it. He almost knocks over an older couple on their way out of a nearby shop, the strong scent of coffee following them as they walk away, and Rhys doesn’t stop to apologise before he’s ambling back the way the couple came. Warm yellow light spills out over the snowy ground as he stumbles none too gracefully through the doors of a café, the name of which he does not recognise and soon forgets.

Rhys shudders when the warm air hits his skin, his fingers tingling with the change in temperature. He’s certainly never been here before, and neither has he seen anything like it. Packed with plush leather chairs, the café is an explosion of colour and comfort. Artwork crowds the walls, canvases of every imaginable shape and size peppering the room: paintings of steaming cups of coffee, candid portraits of customers at tables, illustrations of pastries that are so lifelike, Rhys feels he could pluck them right out of their canvases and taste them. Enveloped in this soothing, coffee-scented warmth, it’s easy to forget the brutal cold he just escaped, and the huge windows overlooking the plaza offer a less threatening preview of the winter that waits beyond them. A rather pretty young woman sits at the table closest to them, her hand flying across a sketchbook as her gaze flicks back and forth between her drawing and the vibrant plaza she’s capturing. Between her gentle smile and the cheery atmosphere, there isn’t an unhappy face in sight, and there are plenty of faces; most of the tables are occupied, and not one of the people here looks like they would rather be elsewhere. Rhys isn’t sure if there’s music playing in the background, or if the ambient noise is just musical in its simplicity.

A few moments in, and he’s already in love with the place. This café is a microcosm of the Prythian that Rhys remembers: bustling and a little chaotic, but bursting at the seams with colour and charm, and completely enchanting. _God, it’s good to be home._ Seldom does this city disappoint him, no matter how long he’s been gone.

Despite the twilight hour, a moderately long queue stretches in front of the counter, nearly reaching the door, and Rhys doesn’t see a single unoccupied table. _Damn_. His hands are still burning rather uncomfortably from the cold, too. He remembers someone telling him, once, that pouring cold water over colder hands is the best way to warm them up. It sounded like rubbish to him then, and still does, but it might be worth a try; his right hand in particular hurts a fair bit, and maybe the café will be less busy in a few minutes.

He’s about to ask a friendly-looking woman in a coffee-stained apron where the washroom is, but another beautiful painting, hanging above a hallway at the back of the café, catches his eye first. This one is flushed purple with lilacs,  _Washroom_ painted in the centre in looping gold script. Rhys carefully navigates the crush of customers, with and without drinks in hand, and walks down the hall, quickening his pace when his right hand gives a particularly painful prickle.

The washroom is empty when he slips inside, and he locks the door behind him. He flexes his hand, sending the tingling through his fingers like electric shocks. He’s never felt cold like this before, like the wind truly pierced his skin. Mor would most certainly kill him if she thought his hubris and the stubborn need to look good at all times earned him frostbite.

When he turns over his hand, he’s alarmed to find it bleeding, a line of crimson running down his palm. He can’t remember scratching himself on his way in here, but he’s more than eager to wash his hands of both cold and discomfort at this point, so he reaches across the sink and turns on the faucet.

The moment he plunges his hands under the stream of cold water, he feels himself begin to warm up, the ice in his fingers slowly thawing. But his right hand still hurts, like there’s something rippling under his skin, itching to break out.

He dries off, taking another look at his hand as it continues to prickle, and winces as a needle-like pain lances through his hand. Confusion doesn’t even get the chance to register before a perfect drop of crimson blood blooms in the middle of his palm. The bead of blood shivers—then, like a curtain dropping, darkens to shimmering obsidian. _Like ink_. The thought, more astute than he realises, ripples its way through his shock, right before the dark bead begins to move.

Rhys’s senses come back to him at that moment, and he reaches towards the faucet again.

But he doesn’t move— _can’t_ move. His hand hovers, frozen, in midair, and he’s forced to watch in intrigued horror as the ink glides across his palm, staining his skin with thin black streaks. His heart hammers, his mind fruitlessly urging him to do something—to call for help, to call Mor, to try to somehow stop this from happening. But he remains wholly transfixed by the slashes of dark ink now painted on his skin.

It hurts, his skin stinging with each new line of black, and try as he might, Rhys does not succeed in wrenching his hands out of whatever unseen force holds them immobile. And with the door locked and his phone out of his reach, there is no hope of someone helping him out of this predicament.

A minute or an hour later, the drop of ink slows, then shudders to a stop, merging back into the design as if it had never been there. Rhys stumbles back as his hands break free of their invisible restraints.

Once he regains his balance, he dares to look at his hand. An eye, sly-looking and feline, gazes up at him. It’s beautiful enough to be featured on any one of the canvases dotting the café’s walls, all elegant lines and perfect curves, but that does not mean that Rhys wants it permanently etched into his skin.

He turns the tap back on, deciding that taking action, as futile as he knows it to be even before he unsuccessfully tries to wash off the ink, is better than wondering how this happened. Or what this even is. The only thing convincing him that he didn’t hallucinate this entire experience is the burning pain in his hand where the ink stained him, even more tender and sore following his harsh attempt to scrub it out. He towels off more gently this time, hissing in pain as the towel scratches his inflamed skin, and pulls out his phone.

Rhys doesn’t even have to think, just dials the first number that comes to mind. Mor picks up on the first ring. “Well, if it isn’t—”

“Mor,” Rhys interjects, “something happened.” He’s alarmed by the strain of panic in his voice.

“What’s wrong?”

How on earth to explain what happened? “Er… would you believe me if I said my hand bled a tattoo?” It sounds as far-fetched as it is, he thinks. But what else could he possibly say? There’s no logical way to phrase this impossibility. 

The excitement in his cousin’s voice takes him aback. “No way! Just now? Where are you?”

“Mor, what is this? What’s going on?” Strangely, the fact that she doesn’t sound at all concerned about this decidedly panic-inducing situation gives Rhys some peace of mind.

“It’ll be easier to explain in person. Where are you?” she asks again.

“A little café. I’m not sure what it’s called.”

Rhys hears a rather exasperated huff on the other end of the phone. “What does it look like? What’s nearby?”

“Er, it’s near a streetlamp,” he offers unhelpfully. “It’s full of paintings.” Not a particularly comprehensive description, he knows, but it’s all he has to go off of.

And apparently, it’s good enough for Mor. “Oh, Bloombury’s! My best friend works there. Lots of armchairs, big windows, probably super busy?”

Despite everything, Rhys smiles a bit. “That’s the one.”

“I’ll be there in five,” Mor chirps, “and you’d better have a hot chocolate for me when I get there.”

 _Right._ A drink. That’s what he came here for in the first place, wasn’t it?

“Sure thing. See you soon, love.”

“See you!”

The phone beeps, signalling the end of the call. Rhys takes a deep breath, tucks his phone in his pocket, and strides back into the café.

 

2.

When Rhys emerges from the hallway, the queue is half as long as it was when he stumbled in, and he steps to the back. The woman by the window is gone, he notices, and many of the other tables are empty as well. His hand continues to smart, but he ignores the pain, looking around for something to distract him while he waits. He focuses on a rather large painting hanging on the wall behind the counter—a meticulously-done mural of around ten people in matching aprons, each holding a mug in a different colour. He recognises the dark-skinned woman he almost asked for help earlier, but most of the other people in the painting are strangers to him, unsurprisingly. Except... His eyes are suddenly drawn to a woman, crouching in the centre of the painting, her hand wrapped around a dark blue mug speckled with white and yellow dots. Where has he—

“What can I get for you?”

Rhys blinks, a smiling young man coming into focus before him. All this time staring at the mural, and he forgot to look at the menu. _Shite._

“Er, a large coffee with two sugars, please. And a hot chocolate, if you’d be so kind.”

“With whipped cream?”

“Yes, please.”

“That comes to six seventy-five.” The young man flashes him a charming smile. _Between him and the drawing woman_ , Rhys muses as he fishes a tenner out of his pocket, _Prythian certainly got prettier since I was here last_.

Rhys gives the barista a half smile as he passes over the money, and a flush colours his pale cheeks. He resists the urge to chuckle. A hellish evening in the bitter cold followed by some supernatural tattooing, and he still has enough charm to make a cute barista blush. He’ll have to come back here, he decides.

“Thanks a lot,” the barista says, then steps away to start preparing the drinks. Rhys strides over to the counter and waits patiently, his gaze flicking from painting to painting as he tries to ignore his hand, now throbbing like a heartbeat. When the drinks come a minute later, he’s careful not to let the man see his new tattoo, promptly wrapping his hand around one of the drinks, then winks at him before turning to find a table.

The very last thing Rhys wants in that moment is to leave the café, where it’s warm and comfortable and frequented by a fair few good-looking individuals. So he takes a seat at the table that the woman with the sketchbook recently vacated, and looks out over the plaza. An unfortunate amount of snow continues to fall—beautiful, serene, but ultimately miserable for him, underdressed as he is. He takes a sip of his coffee, scalding his tongue in the process, and waits for Mor to arrive.

He doesn’t have to wait much longer, though he’s already eaten the whipped cream off of Mor’s drink by the time she texts him that she’s outside and he sees headlights flash through the window.

The walk to Mor’s car is just as unpleasant as Rhys predicted it would be, but it’s worth it to see the jubilant look on his cousin’s face when she takes him in, too-thin sweater and all. God, he missed her when he was away.

Despite the veritable blizzard, Mor hops out of the car to meet him. She nearly slips on the icy pavement as she runs towards him, and it’s a wonder they don’t both crash to the ground when she collides with him, wrapping him in a tight hug.

“I’d say I didn’t miss you,” Mor shouts over the gale, “but I’m no liar. Welcome home, cuz.”

“I m-missed you too,” Rhys manages through chattering teeth, “but might we c-catch up somewhere warmer? I reckon I’ve l-lost a limb to frostbite at this point.”

“You should have dressed warmer,” Mor retorts, holding him a moment longer before letting go. She swipes one of the drinks from Rhys, and he’s only distantly grateful that it was the one held in his un-tattooed hand.

He folds himself into Mor’s compact blue car and gratefully pulls the door shut. When he looks over at Mor, she’s pouting. “You forgot to ask them for whipped cream.”

Rhys bites back a laugh. “Oops.”

“Now,” she says, “let’s get you home, and then we’ll talk about your tattoo. The weather’s not forgiving enough for me to help you through your crisis and drive at the same time.”

Rhys snorts. “Fair enough. Shall we?”

“Hey,” she laughs. “I’ll do the navigating here.” But she pulls out of the parking lot nonetheless, and takes them home.

 

3.

“Let me see.”

A fire burns merrily in the hearth, and Rhys sits cocooned in a large blanket, nursing his coffee and letting it warm him through. The drive home was slow, the visibility being as poor as it is, but they made it, leaving Rhys no more time to prepare before facing this new dilemma.

He puts down his drink and turns over his right hand, exposing the dark eye on his palm. It has since stopped stinging, but it’s still a shock, seeing such a stark black design on what was so recently unmarred olive skin.

Mor beams, seemingly unperturbed by Rhys’s distressed. “Do you know what that is?

“I would if you’d get to the point and tell me,” he mutters.

“No need for that attitude,” Mor trills. Upon taking in Rhys’s expression, an unhealthy clash of irritation and worry, she softens. “Rhys, that’s a soulmate tattoo.”

Any response he may have been preparing shrivels in his throat. He stares dumbly at Mor. Soulmates? That’s pure nonsense.

Isn’t it?

“I know it sounds unbelievable, but unless someone at the cafe drew on your hand with a permanent marker when you weren’t looking, this is the only explanation I can think of. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen.”

“You have?” Apart from some obscure fairy story, perhaps, Rhys is sure he’s never heard of anything like this at all. 

“Yeah, when I was younger. She moved away.” Mor looks at the tattoo again, tracing it with her finger and elaborating no more than that. And he believes her. Mor has never lied to him, not once in his life, and this should be no different. Never mind that until an hour ago, Rhys would have dismissed the notion of magic tattoos as make-believe without a second thought.

But he still knows nothing about them, and maybe he ought to.

“How, exactly, does it work?” Rhys asks.

Mor smiles, clearing her throat with an air of great importance. “The whole idea of soulmates is based on the premise that there is a single, perfect person out there for each of us. This person, your soulmate, is your equal in every way. Now, take that for what it’s worth or leave it, but these tattoos are said to connect two soulmates together. It‘s supposed to appear when you first come near each other—which is useless for you, since you just got off the boat, so to speak.” She shakes her head.  

“So,” Rhys says, more than a bit trepidatious, “I have a soulmate? And they’re in Prythian?” As soon as he voices the question, he realises how inane it is. Mor’s amused look confirms it.

“I’d say it’s more than likely,” she jokes, poking him through the blanket. “Did you see anyone at the café?” Rhys gives her a dry look. “Of course you did, the cafe was probably packed with people, only one of whom was your soulmate. That certainly complicates things,” she murmurs, more to herself than anything.

“Is there a way to find out who they are?” Rhys asks.

Mor shrugs apologetically. “It’s not a tracking device. The only way you’ll know if they’re your soulmate if they have the same tattoo that you do—typically in the same place.”

 _That’s it?_ he thinks, more than a bit disappointed. To have this design permanently etched into his skin, to have it serve a purpose, and to be unable to see that purpose through seems a very sad thing. “Does it do anything else?” he asks.

“I’ve read that if your soulmate is—” Mor cuts herself off, reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone. “Sorry, just a moment.” A peculiar expression flickers over her face: affection, but with a shadow in her eyes that hints at anger.

“Is something the matter?” Rhys asks.

“Everything’s fine, but I have to go. I’ll explain more later, if you want, but mostly, don’t worry. Whoever this person is, their life is going to go on the same as yours is, and the tattoo isn’t going to hurt you. You can just tell people you got a new one—you’ve got a bunch of them already, don’t you? This one should fit right in.” She winks, and then she’s gone, jogging out the room and out the front door.

Mor may be right that the tattoo poses no danger to him, but it’s certainly doesn’t feel normal. He has the eerie sense that it’s... awake, watching, maybe even feeling. Or maybe he’s just exhausted and shaken from the tumult of his first evening in Prythian. When, as he reaches for his drink, he sees the eye blink at him, he writes it off as a trick of the light, a clever shadow cast by the flickering firelight, before he goes upstairs to unpack and puts thoughts of magical tattoos out of his mind.

And if later that day, as he’s hanging up the last of his (never-been-worn) winter jackets, he feels a sudden spike of fear for no reason whatsoever, he can chock it up to jet lag and homesickness. Never mind that after all this time abroad, sick for the city he’s at last returned to, he’s finally home. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to let me know what you thought, and if you're new to this story, check out my fic To Deceive a Deceiver for more content! Love you all so much <3


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